


biting down

by lamborghinimercy



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Biting, Emotionally Constipated Reader, F/M, Marking, No use of y/n, Post-Season/Series 02, Praise Kink, Protective Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, like if we r comparing this to cheetos its a hot cheeto but not an extra hot cheeto, lol, this is a lil SPICY but not super spicy lol, ur also a lil touch starved too but arent we all these days, we all knew that tho LOL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29039607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamborghinimercy/pseuds/lamborghinimercy
Summary: "You stop laughing, but you’re still smiling as you say, exasperation lining your tone, 'Mando. It’s a hickey.''A….a hickey.' He takes his hand away from your neck, taking a step back, and you miss the heat immediately.'Yes. I’m fine. No one hurt me. I’m okay, really. Just a hickey, but I thank you for your concern.'He’s silent. Then: 'What is a hickey?'"AKA, the Mandalorian doesn't know what a hickey is. He'll find out, though. And then some. He's always been a fast learner.Post season 2.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	biting down

**Author's Note:**

> YES IM PLAYING IT FAST AND LOOSE WITH HELMET REMOVAL SO SUE ME!!! in this he's still keeping his helmet on around people he doesn't know well, but not as set on the whole "if u show someone else ur face when u havent put a RING ON THEIR FINGER or ur their father then u can never put ur helmet back on bc ur a disgrace" thing
> 
> i read the lovely pettifogger's incredible "Protector" which features switch Mando [insert sweating emoji here] and it got me thinking about a din that is not that experienced (he a VIRG yall...he hath never been kithed...he BABY). also i just want someone to gnaw on my neck like a fucking corncob at this point and this happened????? i've never written anything [bill hader voice] SPICY before so HERE GOES!!

You’re fiddling with something in the area that serves as the galley-style kitchen, putting plates away to try and make yourself feel useful after coming back from the cantina. You had encountered a very pretty and enthusiastic Twi’lek woman, and after some spotchka…well. You had kissed her. A lot. It was actually really nice.

You haven’t necessarily been feeling lonely lately, per se, but you had felt the absence of affection, physical touch. Mando had hired you as a kind of live-in mechanic/medic/jack-of-all-trades, and as the months dragged on, that need just became more and more pressing. You’ve always been a physical person, in both the most innocent sense of the word as well as the more sexual connotation, and you missed that. And it’s not like you’re ever going to get that from Mando – even though you would really, really like to.

Maybe that’s why it was so pressing to go out and kiss, touch, _feel_ someone and have that in return? Someone you want is right there and with you all the time, and yet… _and yet_. You can’t have him. You don’t even know if he wants you, let alone really consider you as a friend – it’s not like you can see his reactions to things other than a shift of weight onto one hip (which can mean annoyed), crossed arms (can also mean annoyed), or a helmet tilt (curiosity…or annoyance).

It shouldn’t surprise you that he carries himself with this sense of formality – he’s literally dressed like a knight in shining armor. The moments where you figuratively see beneath that armor are few and far between, but fuck, every single time you do just makes you like Mando more. You have an unspoken agreement to take care of each other: you cook and set aside a plate for him, and he always leaves extra caf for you in the morning (when he noticed you like yours on the sweeter side, a container of sugar mysteriously made its way into the pantry). A few weeks after he had hired you, you were perusing a market looking for a clinic to buy bacta patches from, and the both of you were walking next a woman whose baby was strapped to her back. And he fucking _waved_ at it, almost shyly, and when the baby let out a delighted gurgle, flailing its chubby little arms, you heard him laugh for the first time.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t been a goner for him since.

Speak of the devil. Mando strides into the galley, evidently looking for something, and tosses out, “You’re back?” as he stands next to you, grabbing something from an overhead compartment. His hip knocks into yours as he reaches up, and you bite back your smile.

You hum in agreement, and hand him a cup to put up. His gloved fingers touch yours as he takes it, and that persistent, annoying, yawning pit of yearning inside of you shrinks ever so slightly at his touch.

Funnily enough, the Twi’lek woman’s touch didn’t have that same impact, and she was literally all over you.

You only want to scream a little bit at the realization, and chew the inside of your cheek instead.

“How was it?”

“Eh,” you say noncommittally. You’re not about to tell him about your hookup – he’s your employer, and you would like to think that he’s a friend, but you don’t actually know whether the feeling is mutual. It’s totally, completely fine. Super fine. It doesn’t bug you at all. You squat down to put away something below the tiny sink, and flick your hair back to get it out of your face. Mando looks down at you, and freezes.

“What… _what_ is that on your neck? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?” Mando rushes out, and suddenly he’s hauling you up, completely filling your field of vision because he’s so broad and he’s – he’s running his fingers down your neck and you have to suppress the urge to gasp out loud at the feeling of leather trailing against your neck. “Who hurt you?” he demands, his giant hand holding, caressing the side of your neck, and your brow furrows in confusion. He’s so close, all up in your space – you are struck by the realization that you really do not mind that he is closer than you’ve ever been before, and it takes you that much longer than normal to even try to string a sentence together. The proximity just overrides your common sense, and you just want him _closer_ –

You cut that train of thinking off. Too dangerous. “Mando – no one hurt me. I’m fine,” you finally say, but when you say ‘fine’, your voice pitches up, like you’re asking a question. And really, you kind of are. You don’t know why he’s freaking out and touching your neck and – “Oh,” you say dumbly, realization hitting you like a freighter as you recall the woman kissing your neck, “OH.” You’re equal parts amused and incredibly embarrassed that you have to explain it, and you smile up at him, barely suppressing your giggles.

“What – why are you laughing?” he says, quietly, almost shyly.

You stop laughing, but you’re still smiling as you say, exasperation lining your tone, “Mando. It’s a _hickey_.”

“A….a hickey.” He takes his hand away from your neck, taking a step back, and you miss the heat immediately.

“Yes. I’m fine. No one hurt me. I’m okay, really. Just a hickey, but I thank you for your concern.”

He’s silent. Then: “What is a hickey?”

You raise your eyebrows, but you don’t laugh. You feel your face warming – and you hope he doesn’t have the infrared filter on and literally see you flush with embarrassment. You probably should’ve seen this coming – even if he’s had sex with whatever willing warm body that came along, it’s not like he would whip off all of his armor, or Maker forbid, his _helmet_ and be able to give, or really even receive hickeys. And he’s always so busy hunting people down, it’s not like he would normally have the time to even have sex in the first place, much less have the energy to find or pursue someone to have sex with.

Well. There is someone right under his nose that wants to have sex with him, but it’s not like he knows that. And it’s not like you’ll ever tell him.

“Um,” you start eloquently, “hm. Well, it’s normally a byproduct of…amorous encounters, I guess?” you say, trying to be as clinical as possible about this. You’re already easily flustered by Mando doing literally anything (flying, shooting things, telling you that you’re doing a good job in that low, gravelly voice of his, standing, sitting, brooding, etc.), so trying to get more, erm, descriptive about sex and things that come with sex, with _Mando_ of all people is absolutely out of the question lest you embarrass yourself. More. Since you already do embarrass yourself, all the time. Just yesterday, you smashed your head on bottom of the cockpit dashboard coming up from doing wiring, and the bastard fucking laughed.

“Amorous encounters,” Mando repeats slowly, helmet tilting to the side. You can’t see his eyes, but his gaze, that single-minded focus on you burns all the same.

“Yes?” you squeak out. You sigh, swallowing hard – you’re going to have to actually explain this in depth to the man you happen to have a raging crush on. But you don’t want him to feel bad for his inexperience or his curiosity, so you soldier on. “Sometimes, if you’re, uh, kissing or having sex or hooking up with someone, or even just kissing – they sometimes bite. And suck. The two key ingredients of a hickey,” you add on, trying to inject the barest amount of humor into the situation.

He’s quiet again, and as the silence drags on, you’re contemplating how you’re going to hide the sound of you screaming into a pillow later on because of the sheer embarrassment of it all. “I’ve never seen one before,” he says suddenly, his voice small.

“Well, that certainly explains your reaction. They can look kind of scary-looking if it’s a real rough one. And it can hurt a little to receive them,” you say, trying to assuage him. You bite your lip, wondering if he will smash your head into the wall for asking what you’re about to ask, “I take it you’ve never given or received one, then?”

“No,” he replies. His voice is shy, and quiet, and you’re struck by how much you just want to hug him, press a kiss to that helmet of his. You feel a potent surge of affection and protectiveness for him, warm in your stomach, at this new vulnerability he’s showing you.

“That’s okay,” you say, smiling encouragingly. “Some people don’t like them. It’s a matter of opinion, and…feeling, I guess.”

“And you?” he asks. Your heart stops, then starts thundering in your chest.

“Yes,” you answer hoarsely, immediately, then wringing your fingers at how quickly you answer and at how breathy your voice sounds. “I wouldn’t let someone give them to me if I didn’t like it, would I?” you add, laughing a little.

“Why?” He’s preternaturally still.

“'Why’, what?” you say a little breathlessly.

“Why do you like it?”

Fuck. He went there. You hum noncommittally at first, looking at the ceiling and desperately trying to gather your thoughts and quiet the harmonious choir of internal screaming and shrieking currently monopolizing the bandwidth in your brain.

“I think for most people, hickeys can be a territorial thing. Which I don’t really mind, but that’s not really my focus. I think it’s just…the vulnerability of it.”

You pause, and he hums.

“And — the idea that it’s so much, that it’s so good, that you just… _bite_ _down_. That someone is reduced to their basest instincts,” you continue, hand fluttering up to touch your neck absentmindedly.

Under the helmet, Din wishes that it was his hand on your neck instead.

You’re jarred out of your thoughts, and you shrug a little helplessly, and say laughingly, “It’s hot.”

An amused snort makes its way out of the vocoder, and you grin.

You’re both silent for a stretch of time, and unthinkingly, you touch your neck again. You run your fingers over the mark, looking up at the ceiling again, and you don’t see Mando’s shoulders lift, his broad chest expand as he inhales raggedly when he sees you touching that mark.

“Would you – ” Mando starts suddenly, then cuts himself off just as quickly. “No. Never mind.”

Well. That’s a surefire way to pique your curiosity. “What?” you ask, your brow furrowing. “’Would I’ what?”

Mando heaves a deep, long-suffering sigh, shaking his head. He’s looking at the floor, and all you want is for that visor to be fixed on you.

“You’re gonna leave me hanging, Mando?” you say, only half-joking. You feel your emotions roiling, rattling around in your brain: confusion, curiosity, anxiety, exasperation, but more than anything else…that fluttering sense of anticipation.

He looks up at you. Ever so quietly: “Would you teach me?”

“How to give a hickey?” you say, raising your eyebrows.

He nods, and it feels like your heart is in your throat.

You’re silent.

“I told you, never mind – “ he starts brusquely, but you cut him off.

“Are you sure you trust me to?” you ask quietly.

“I trust you. More than anyone else,” he replies immediately, and you desperately try to push down the sense of warmth and completely unjustifiable possessiveness that sweeps over you.

“But do you _want_ me to?” you follow up.

“Yes,” he exhales, just above a whisper, and you suck in a rattling breath.

It’s like your body is on autopilot as you grab his wrist, leading him – somewhere. You don’t really know where you’re going, what you’re going to do – your stomach flops at the thought, and you drag him to the first place with a wall and a clear-enough floor. Better to do this in neutral territory, you think, slightly hare-brained.

You pull him to the floor with you, and he sinks down to sit to your left, both of you with your backs to the wall. Part of you wonders what it would be like to look at this from an outside perspective – this giant warrior hunkered down on the floor of a spaceship to sit next to you.

“I’m gonna give you one on your wrist, so you can watch me and see what I’m doing, okay?” you say, finally broaching the silence between you two. He’s so tense, sitting stiffly with his back ramrod straight against the wall, and you smile, nodding a little at him to try and ease his nerves. “It’s okay, you can relax.” You run your thumb back and forth over his cloth-covered wrist. “If you want me to stop, just tell me and I’ll stop, no questions asked, okay?”

“Okay,” he rasps.

“Can I push your sleeve back?”

He nods shakily. Then adds, “You can, um. Take my glove off, too. If you want.”

“It’s totally up to you, Mando.”

“It’s okay. And…Din.”

“Hmm?”

“My name is Din Djarin.”

You suddenly have to fight the urge to cry.

“Nice to meet you, Din Djarin,” you say softly, and he chuckles. “I’m gonna take your glove off, _Din_ ,” you say, emphasizing his name and smiling, and he lets out a breathless, slightly nervous laugh, nodding. Before you pull his glove off, you hesitate, then press a kiss to the back of his gloved hand. He heaves in a rattling breath, and you smile up at him, your eyes just a little bit watery. “Thank you for sharing your name with me.”

He just nods again, speechless. You’re tugging his left glove off, coaxing it off one finger at a time, and suddenly, you get to learn that Mando… _Din_ has beautiful brown skin with little silvery scars scattered all over his hand, a haphazard collection leftover from burns and cuts and nicks, and a tattoo of a target. It’s a little, largely insignificant fact about him in the grand scheme of things, but between this and his name, it feels like he’s gifted you the galaxy. These are the hands that have hauled you behind him when blasters start to go off, the hands that have bandaged and soothed the little cuts and burns you got after trying to fix his shoddy wiring, the hands that gently and patiently clean every single one of his damn guns each night when he’s on the ship. It’s such a small thing about him, but it’s _him_. So you’ll treasure his name, his hands, each piece of him he decides to show you.

Fuck. You’re in too deep. You like him _so much_.

Oh well. Time to ignore that for now.

In order to distract yourself from this unwelcome tidal wave of _feelings_ and _realizations_ , you jokingly hold his hand up to the light to inspect it, turning it this way and that.

“It’s a nice hand,” you say conversationally, and he laughs out loud, some of the nerves leaching from his body as he does so. You’re grinning, and allow yourself to bask in this moment, in this intimacy with Din. _Din_. Your heart is pounding.

“Thank you,” he replies beatifically, and you press another kiss to his bare hand, this time on his knuckles, delighting in his laughter being cut off with a shaky breath.

“You still want this?” you confirm again. “If you don’t, that’s okay.”

“Yes.”

You push his sleeve back, skating your fingers up his forearm, relishing in the feeling of his warm skin under your fingertips.

“I’m gonna bite now, okay?” you say, trying to be as clinical as possible as you hold his forearm. Judging by how husky your voice gets, you’re failing.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Part of you already knows that you would do anything for him, even if he wouldn’t do the same. You just never anticipated _this_.

Your nose gently brushes against his skin. He smells like leather. That blaster oil he has to get every single time you stop in Nevarro to drop off bounties, because he goes through it so quickly fastidiously cleaning his weapons every night. Citrus. You press a kiss to his wrist because you can’t help yourself, looking up at him again to make sure he’s still okay with this.

He nods.

You bite down, and he gasps. You press closer to him, starting to suck on the skin, and your whole world narrows down to the piece of Din’s skin between your teeth, the way you feel him grappling at any part of you he can get his hands on to pull you closer so you’re almost on top of his lap, on top of _him_ , the way he starts helplessly panting the longer you go on sucking, laving at his wrist.

He’s so reactive, and it’s doing something to you that you are desperately trying to ignore. This is a favor for a friend, right? It’s just because he’s never had one before, right? Probably just because he’s been touch-starved for so long, because he hasn’t done anything of a more sexual flavor with anyone recently.

At the thought of him with someone else, your grip on his forearm tightens, and you suck harder, relishing the slight choking noise from him in response.

You don’t know how long you’re biting, sucking his wrist – he sighs your name at one point, and his gloved fingers find their way into your hair at another, and you do everything in your willpower to not whimper when he fists his hand at your scalp, pulling lightly.

Sometimes, hickeys are meant to be seen. But in this moment, you realize that you would be the only person to ever see the mark you left on his skin, on him, the only one to know him like this, that he chose you and trusted you to do this with him, _to_ him, and you feel yourself getting wet.

Huh. Maybe you were more territorial than you thought.

You circle your tongue around the perimeter of skin you have latched between your teeth, and he moans brokenly through the vocoder, the sound coming out of him almost unbidden, like he didn’t expect to. Suddenly, his hand tightens in your hair and he tugs you up with it, and your lips make a _pop_ as he pulls you off of his wrist. You belatedly press a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the rapidly purpling mark you just made on his wrist, just because you can, and he shudders.

His chest is heaving erratically, breaths rattling through his vocoder. It’s silent for a moment, both of you catching your breath. You steadfastly ignore his crotch, looking only at his visor, and trying to disregard how fucking wet you are just from giving someone a hickey. But he’s not just someone – it’s _Din_.

His fingers tighten in your hair again.

“I wanna try,” he rasps, never one to mince words.

“You sure?” you say, raising your eyebrows. “That involves taking the helmet off, Din.”

“Like I said,” he said, his hands going to the bottom of his helmet, and your eyes grow as large as saucers as you hear that distinct hissing noise, that noise you only ever heard when walking away from the cockpit so he could eat or when he was about to take a shower in the fresher, “I trust you.”

His helmet makes a quiet, understated _thunk_ as he places it on the floor, but you can barely hear it anyway over your pulse roaring in your ears.

“Din?” you whisper, raising your hand slowly to his cheek. When he doesn’t flinch away, you place it on his jawline, then run your thumb over his cheekbone. His eyes flutter at the contact, and you’re struck breathless by how unfairly gorgeous he is. “You’re so _pretty_ ,” you sigh without thinking, and his eyes shoot open.

Those beautiful brown eyes are filled with disbelieving amusement when he looks at you, but a shy smile spreads across his face.

“Takes one to know one,” he says, and you snort. He grins, grabbing your arm, and it feels like all the breath in your lungs whooshes out at once at the feeling of his hooked nose skimming along your wrist. “Tell me if I do something wrong?” he says, a little bashful, looking up at you, and you run a hand through his brown, curly hair. You shake your head, smiling at the novelty of this.

“Din,” you love the feeling of his name in your mouth, and judging by the way his pupils dilate, maybe he does, too, “Just go by instinct. You won’t mess this up.”

He nods, then mouths at your wrist, pressing a kiss to it like you did.

He’s looking at you as he bites down, but your eyes immediately slam shut at the sensation of his teeth, the feeling of his tongue, warm and wet as he suckles that spot on your wrist. It feels like all of you is throbbing.

He starts sucking harder, and your eyes fly open.

Din’s brow is furrowed slightly, but his eyes are closed like he’s lost in it and he looks almost – relaxed? Every part of him is focused on the task that he’s been given, but he doesn’t seem to be worried, tense like he was earlier. You feel his fingers, one hand gloved and the other ungloved, rhythmically clenching your forearm, and when he laves his tongue over that piece of flesh trapped between his teeth, you’re so keyed up, you can’t help but moan and card your free hand through his curly hair.

“Din,” you whimper, and his eyes fly open, “that feels so good.”

His eyes slam shut again, and you feel his responding groan against your wrist, his tongue twisting again, and you squirm restlessly, gasping. Your hand comes to rest on his thigh, squeezing, and he lets go with a _pop_.

His eyes are nearly black, glazed over with lust, and his lips are red and slightly swollen from suction and shiny with spit. He’s always so in control, so seemingly unruffled by everything that life throws at him, and your ego swells tenfold at the fact that he looks like this, so dazed, so debauched, because of _you_.

He’s so fucking gorgeous.

You swallow hard and feel yourself clench around nothing.

You look down at your wrist – it’s already bruising. He grabs your arm to run his thumb over the hickey he just gave you, and you feel that same tightening sensation in your gut.

Leaning back against the wall, your brain scrambling for words to try and inject some levity into the situation, to gain some control over this situation you created, you say, “Now you can cross that off your bucket list, tin can.”

At first, affront crosses his face at being called “tin can”, and you’re reminded of how he’s never had to hide his facial expressions before since he wears the helmet all the time. But then he breaks into a smile, his eyes crinkling in delight, hunching down to butt his head against your shoulder and – he’s laughing. Loud, boisterous, giddy laughter, his broad shoulders shaking with it, and you can’t help but join in.

Eventually, his giggles peter out, and he looks up at you, and he’s so soft – curly, messy hair, those warm brown eyes, the way he’s looking at you – it’s so soft, and you like him _so much_ , and you hope that you’re not just projecting what you want to see when you see something like fondness in his eyes.

“Thank you,” he says, and he’s smiling, close-lipped.

“Any time,” you say unthinkingly, and you only realize your mistake when his eyes flash.

But he just hums, picks up his helmet, and stands up, walking to the fresher.

“Gonna take a shower,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“’Kay,” you reply, breathlessly.

You watch his ass the entire time he’s walking away, grinning to yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> well. that happened


End file.
